The Wolf You Feed
by lostlikeme
Summary: Cutting class to escape the noise and fish in the forest, teenaged Will Graham encounters a peculiar black dog three times. The third time, it transforms into a man. Warning for explicit content, Alpha/Beta/Omega elements, non-consent and canon typical violence.


One evening an elderly Cherokee Brave told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said, "My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all. One is evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self pity, guilt resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego."

"The other is good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith."

The Grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins...?"

The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one that you feed."

* * *

Will's eyes are red rimmed but dry; the autumn air is cool and crisp [the smell of pine.] He hugs his faded gray jacket around his body as he stumbles through the forest, determined to navigate through the dense trees to the small clearing where the creek cuts through the underbrush. It only takes a few minutes of wandering before the quiet trickle of running water becomes part of nature's orchestral swell.

The noise, Will is expecting. He doesn't expect the stag standing in the stream, the way it's barreled neck juts forward nor the height, more formidable than he ever imagined an herbivore. All he hears is rushing water as he stares, wondering how the antlers would feel beneath his fingers, a weapon smooth as sanded wood [or bone.] One misstep is all it takes, and the animal tenses, head jerking in the direction where Will is frozen in place.

It stares at him for less than a second before sprinting, [yet Will is displaced.]

When the mirror shatters, Will finds himself fumbling with the fishing rod, trying not to prick his fingers as he pulls a hook through a worm. His motor skills are even less adept than usual, and it takes him two tries between trembling and a bloody thumb before he can cast the line again. The sun sets on the horizon and it's the third time this week Will has struggled with the distinct feeling of being watched. He hides his face in his hands for a moment, eyelashes fluttering against his palms as he tries to self soothe. When he drags his hands down to his mouth he tries inhaling through his nose, feels the faint traces of a beard that is just starting to grow along his jawline as his eyes roll back in his head.

Will startles into action when a small noise confirms his suspicions: that he is being purposely tracked, followed, [stalked.] He drops the rod and scrambles to swing his backpack over his shoulder. Paranoia nearly consumes him [please not someone from school] before the shadow [an animal] presses against his peripherals. His eyes widen and glaze over when he realizes what's been watching him. For an entire moment, the black, four legged mass is more than an animal, a predator, a hunter, a [monster.]

Even in the chokehold of fear Will finds himself trying to dispute what his gut is telling him. That it can't possibly be a wolf so close to his neighborhood, [alone.] It doesn't make sense. His brain sputters before the cogs begin moving. [A dog then, likely a mix.] Definitely spitz origins, though the sheer size suggests something larger.

Will purposely unfocuses his eyes for fear of appearing aggressive. He can feel the dog slowly scanning the area, indecisive. A small huff breaks the silence when the dog points its muzzle to the air, nose twitching as it investigates. Will notices too late that he's foiled his own plans, but the dog only stares at him a moment before turning away. It continues on its previous path, and while Will waits with baited breath for the danger to pass, he notices the limp.

[Don't] he tells himself. But what if it's bad? He probably just stepped on a thorn. [Or a bear trap.] Will suppresses a sympathetic shudder. His heart rate accelerates as he glances around, unmoving, as if expecting to spot the evidence hidden beside him. The birds burst to life in the trees and Will finds his fingers flying to his ears, bracing his brain for the chaos. When he turns back, sweat beading on his forehead, the dog is gone[?]

Relieved [disappointed], Will bends down to retrieve his fishing pole. He chokes on the air in his throat in an attempt to freeze. The dog is behind him, mere inches of space between them. Will attempts to steady his breathing, trying to keep his movements as slow and unthreatening as possible. Once he's kneeling, facing it, the dog appears even larger. It isn't growling but its flagged tail and stiff stance are no small comfort. Will grimaces at the open wound on its forearm.

"Hey," he whispers, desperately trying to sound reassuring. He squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to battle away the discomfort, movements laden with fear.

"It's okay," he tries again, sounding no more sure of himself than before. He feels shaky as his eyes roll back a bit, eyelids rapidly covering and uncovering them in swift, panicked blinks. The dog doesn't move, and Will swallows. "I can, uh, I can fix your-your paw," he says, voice hoarse.

The dog relaxes slowly, still watchful. Will stammers and sucks in a breath. "I have bandages," he babbles trying to keep his stance open. [It isn't usually this easy to talk.]

The dog approaches him as suddenly as it arrived, and Will can feel all his muscles tense. He resists the urge to close his eyes and is rewarded when the dog begins nosing at the denim of Will's pants.

Heart hammering in his chest, Will smiles. "Good boy," he says, voice cracking.

A few moments pass in silence where Will questions his own sanity before he outstretches his arm and cautiously runs his fingers through the dark fur. It feels soft and surprisingly clean. The sensation pricks his palm so Will copies the action a second time, taking note of the shoulder blades and vertebrae as he runs his hand across its spine. Before Will realizes what's happening, the repetitive motion is calming him.

As the tremors disappait, Will can't help but feel bittersweet. The dog noses at his immobile hand and Will scratches him [it] behind the ears.

His father won't let him keep a dog.

* * *

The next two days Will attends school in its entirety, but the shabby walls and monotony are a dim comparison to the lush clearing by the lake where Will imagines he is instead. In contrast to the the forest's solitude, there is always someone here, someone speaking, thinking, moving, [twitching] smacking gum or otherwise crowding Will's mental space. The fluorescent lighting does nothing to calm Will's inner panic, and the hodgepodge of bright colors from the posters crammed onto the walls sends Will's overstimulated brain spiraling into suffocation.

Eleventh grade is no better than tenth, the ostracization of high school no better than the bullying he'd suffered through in elementary. It becomes impossible to think clearly by day three, and with the threat of his end of the year presentation looming in the near distance, it becomes all too easy for Will to decide.

Thursday Morning Will rises with the sun and sets off for the forest. He skips breakfast but snags some lunch meat from the fridge and tosses it into a ziplock bag. Disappointment is a cold shock when the clearing is empty: no stag, no dog [wolf], just Will Graham. Fishing is ordinarily his respite of alone time, but instead time ticks by with a sense of newfound hollowness that Will can't bring himself to stomach.

The sun still hasn't peaked for midday when Will gives up, hiding his fishing supplies in the juncture of rocks beside the lake. When he turns around to look for his backpack, the dog is there, head cocked to one side as it watches Will in silence.

For a moment, Will feels awkward. He's never had a dog before, much less spoken to one. "Uh, hey there," he tries.

He presents his hand and the dog steps forward to sniff it casually, reaffirming familiarity. When its wet nose pushes more insistently at Will's hand discomfort fades away, a smile just barely breaking the surface. It stretches into a grin and transforms into a chuckle when the dog licks at his fingers. His eyes flicker to the dog's leg where he is unsurprised to find the gauze gone, [the wound all but healed.]

It isn't until the dog begins nosing at his backpack that Will remembers the contents. "Oh!" he finds himself exclaiming, stopping just short of chastising himself for his own excitement.

He finds speaking remarkably easy. "I figured you might be hungry," he says, eyeing the animal as he rushes to rifle through the bag.

The dog is surprisingly well kempt, not at all the starved and malnourished image his memory had tortured him with these past two days. His hands are still trembling with nervous energy when his fingers curl around the plastic, but not enough to halt the movement in motion.

Will outstretches his arm, fingers open, a cold cut of ham slimy against his palm. The black nose twitches as the dog scents the meat carefully before turning away completely to sit on his heels. Will's face falls as he struggles to stop the surge of disappointment from consuming him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and counts the beats of his heart, tries to deepen his breathing and slow it with each inhalation.

He shakes his head once, twice, three times without meaning to. "It's not, it's not-" he almost wants to clamp his mouth shut, cease speaking altogether and give up.

Unlike what Will is used to, there is no sigh, eyeroll, [or shift of impatience.] Instead the dog remains impassively still but interested, eyes flickering between the food in Will's hand and his face. The sense of ease allows Will enough time to wrangle his thoughts and steady his heartbeat.

"It's not poisoned," he finishes at last. The dog looks at him in what can only be described as incredulity.

Will presses a piece into his mouth and bites off a corner for good measure. He chews it carefully before swallowing, and even manages to maintain eye contact for the full thirty seconds it takes him to finish.

"See?"

When the dog refuses his second and third attempt at being baited, Will resigns to finish the ham himself. They sit side by side in front of the stream and watch the water flow, stillness and solace unbroken long past the setting of the sun. Will thinks about many things as he threads his fingers through the dog's fur, most especially symbiosis and the way he can share sympathy with everyone save for himself.

The storm clouds go unnoticed as they accumulate overhead, and it isn't until the first crack of thunder that Will moves, nature breaking the silence for them. The dog's ears prick forward, and a flash of lightning breaks apart the night sky. As Will stares up into eternity he finds himself lost in the expanse of darkness, surprisingly comfortable even when the rain begins to downpour all at once, like a thick sheet of water tossed from God's window.

The dog doesn't share his sense of complacency, tail flagged as another strike of lightning illuminates their small clearing. Will finds his eyes drawn back to the sky where he can just barely make out a sliver of the moon, well shrouded behind dark gray clouds. The dog becomes increasingly restless, nosing insistently at his shoulder during each break in pacing. When Will still doesn't move, the dog releases a low warning growl.

Will flinches instinctually, hunches in on himself before pulling himself back out. He swallows as raindrops crowd his glasses, licking his lips. The dog is still growling: a steady, rhythmic undercurrent of vibration that Will is certain he can feel through the blades of grass touching his fingertips. Will isn't sure what has incited the act of aggression, whether the storm, a nearby predator, [or Will himself.] Regardless, he finds himself eager to quell the dog's nerves instead of stricken with fear, [as maybe he should be.]

A cold, wet nose presses against his hand, and Will forces himself to stand.

It isn't much easier to see, even after Will removes his glasses. In the dark of the evening the landscape of the forest has become a blur of trees and obscurity. Will's less than perfect eyesight only worsens matters, and he is hesitant to try and leave the forest at all, for fear of becoming lost in it's depths, crushed beneath the thick of the trees.

Will follows the animal without thought, counting each step forward like another beat in nature's lullaby. They walk in sync, side by side without any effort, turning corners and rounding trees like they share the same eyes. The rain feels as if it is only falling around Will instead of on him, because beside [his?] dog, Will feels a way he never has before: invincible.

The edge of the forest approaches Will all too quickly, and when he glances at his side to officiate their parting, he finds the space empty. In that moment [drenched and disappointed] Will feels the sense of serenity deplete at last. The rest of the way to his house, Will finds himself wondering, not for the first time, why his home is never welcomed, always dreaded.

* * *

It is unusually rainy for October, Will's mother says as he curls around himself beneath the heavy comforter. Despite its name, it does little to extinguish the disquiet ever present inside of him. Wrought with worry, Will's mother feeds into his feigned sickness with soup and maternal concern. She opts to delay work by a few hours, and instead of guilt welling in his stomach Will can only feel annoyance, an eagerness to escape. Will has never before found deception so uncomplicated.

By mid-morning Will has become more than restless, failing miserably at repressing the way his limbs have become jittery and uncoordinated. He finds his fingers thoughtlessly fidgety, pulling at each other until his nails are cut to the quick, cuticles wrecked and bloody. When his mother finallys drags herself away to work at half past noon, Will wastes no time dawdling.

The half mile run to the forest pumps Will with adrenaline, so much so that he hardly notices as the branches drag across his arms as he barrels through the trees, tearing at his skin. The sting that does manage to seep into his senses only heightens the thrill, a dull reminder that he is still alive. His boots skid through the mud as he tries to stop too suddenly, stumbling forward in front of what was once his favorite fishing spot.

In place of the small clearing is a massive tree trunk, snapped in half at the base like it was a mere stick instead of the hulking, towering mass it once was. Will swallows audibly, chest heaving as tries to inspect the damage. He tugs briefly at his backpack, crushed carelessly beneath the oversized plant. He stares for a few moments, lost in his own insignificance.

The strap falls from his hand when the shrubs nearby rustle. His [wolf] dog emerges, perfectly pristine and unaffected, as if the universe itself merely molds around him in an attempt to better suit his needs.

"Hi," Will says, feeling flushed and foolish as soon as the greeting leaves his mouth. "I thought maybe…" Will's eyes drift back to the fallen tree. "That, that," he swallows again, tongue thick. "That maybe, ah, that maybe I made you up."

Will laughs at his own idiocy. The sound is unfamiliar and the feeling equally as unsettling. When silence fails, he tries to fix it.

"I'm Will," he offers as he approaches.

The dog sniffs the air when a breeze blows through, eyes darting from place to place. Will stops in his tracks, unconsciously rubbing at the shallow scratches on his arms, smearing blood. The [wolf] dog tenses, hackles raised. Will is halfway through formulating an apology when red eyes lock onto his own, enlightened and intense.

The dog turns, glancing back only once before bursting into a sprint, [but the message is clear: follow me.]

Will's feet have never moved this fast, his lungs have never been pushed so far past their own capacity. As he propels forward the forest fades away, trees dragging into one green blur; nature's noise drowned out by the sound of water [blood] rushing in his ears. The only image Will can see with an ounce of clarity, he clings to, the dark fur of the wolf [dog?] fading in and out of his field of vision as he struggles to focus his eyes.

The muscles in his legs stretch painfully as he surges forward, tendons threatening to snap under the pressure as he chokes back ragged, raw gulps of air. There's a fire building in his chest, crackling and burning at the seams of his soul. When the wolf stops in front of him Will follows in suit, heeling his body in time with his heart, leaving his brain in a frenzy as it struggles to keep afloat in a sea of its own adrenaline.

Chest heaving, Will imitates the stance of a spooked feline, the hair on his arms is raised along with his flesh, littered with goosebumps. Sweat trickles down his dirtied cheek and creates a clear path before slipping from his chin and disappearing into the ground below. His nerves are so overworked and on edge that it takes Will a full two and a half minutes of wheezing before he notices the corpse on the ground in front of him.

Time slows to a standstill as his brain processes, hands braced on his knees. Will can't figure out what he's looking at. The body is massive, muscles stretched taut, red flesh glittering like gold beneath streaks of sunlight. Will sees it backwards and from the inside out, can smell the rot before it's set, can taste the coppery tang of blood bubbling in his mouth before he notices the brown fur or the blank, empty look in it's beady black eyes.

The dog circles the body, stops and sits, stares at Will expectantly. [For you] Will hears in a series of soft, subtle impressions pushing at the corners of his mind.

The forest is disturbingly quiet, magnifying the sound and shift of each movement Will makes tenfold. He finds himself pacing around the fallen creature just as his dog has, examining the bite wounds and the red mess leaking from its torn out throat. There are matching maroon streaks throughout it's shredded skin, claw marks that sink far past the thick covering of fat and fur. The antlers are most impressive, massive marble weapons protruding directly from its skull, clean ivory speckled with spats of blackened blood; the final, most intimate details in a perfectly painted picture.

All at once it dawns on him that this is what Will is looking at, death staring back unflinchingly into his soul.

Will contemplates the impossibility of a dog taking down a kill of that size single-handedly, even as he allows it to usher him into the small, dimly lit cottage that's been sitting unobtrusively behind the crime scene all along, fairy-tale pretty and just as unbelievable.

The interior of the little house is not as Will expected it would be. Instead of a thin layer of dust he finds every surface is immaculately clean, and instead of half empty condiments and rotting food, Will finds that the entire kitchen is brimming with fresh ingredients. The lightbulbs in the lamps work without issue, and the tap turns hot with water in mere seconds. Will runs his hand across the couch cushions, fingers dipping into an impression left from frequent use. In other words: someone lives here.

In other words, Will's wolf is not his [dog] at all.

[Is someone home?] The thought unsettles him, even as the dog laps delicately at the tips of his fingers. Will eyes the cushion warily as he sits slowly, limbs shaky. The wolf [dog!] rushes to sit between his legs. The dog reels back on it's hind legs before lunging forward, paws scratching at his t-shirt, breath hot against his cheek.

"Down boy," Will tries half heartedly, chuckling.

The smile forming in his eyes quickly fades away as the grip around his body tightens with an impending sense of danger. Panic ascends and skyrockets like a water rising to a boil, and before Will can tightly clamp a lid over his brain everything is bubbling over, thoughts and feelings and sensation [and fear], all at once. Will squeezes his eyes shut as his heart swells. The sound of fabric tearing sends a wave of goosebumps rising on his arms like a field of flowers coming into bloom mid-Spring.

[Something is amiss.] Will's flight instinct is insistently ebbing at his consciousness. The air shifts, disturbed, and the pressure at his back becomes unbearable. Will collapses in on himself, allows the wolf to press him further into the couch, even turns his head to the side so that all he can smell is detergent pressing at his nostrils instead of earth and pine [and blood.] There is a moment where the creature draws back, where just enough time elapses that Will feels safe enough to risk a glance he will always regret.

Above him is neither beauty nor beast, but a grotesque mixture between the two, writhing and twisting in relative silence as Will lays helplessly beneath it. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watches in fascinated horror as the muzzle recedes and reshapes, as bones creak, crack, break, and regrow. Skin replaces fur as limbs elongate and in just moments the creature has transformed from a wolf into a man, inconspicuously groomed hair parted to the side above neatly structured cheek bones, as if he weren't just furred and on four legs.

"Attempting to train me?" the beast says in a dark, smooth voice. The monster smiles, scratching sharp nails against Will's scalp. "I too value obedience in a pet."

Frozen in place, unable to break eye contact, Will begins to hyperventilate

The dog version is docile and quietly friendly; uncomplicated, as opposed to this, the [not quite] human version whose dangerous level of articulation bleeds god complex like the slaughter of livestock. What's most disturbing about the beast is what hasn't changed, the way his eyes are still bright red fibreglass, shattered with specks of color, reflective in a way that is decidedly inhuman. Will's throat closes as he realizes he's been staring at [someone] something with a heightened level of self awareness. Pinned by his [it's] heavy weight, Will can feel the fear crippling him when the beast's coal black pupils dilate like expanding ripples in a river.

Words almost a whisper fail before they can even begin, but the beast can read the question from Will's parted lips.

"Hannibal," he says, breath hot against the shell of Will's ear.

Will crushes his eyes shut, the action accompanied by a brief muscle spasm. He can still see its [his] luminous eyes in the darkness, the way the sclera seems squeezed into insignificance. A minute movement above him [a shift in weight, a better grip] raises the hair on Will's forearms, both speeds and stilts his heartbeat all at once. Air is only just escaping his nose in shallow, increasingly frenetic inhalations, and though the heavy weight bearing against his chest isn't physically hurting him, it's present enough to feel inescapably suffocating.

"Fearless beneath mother nature's hand, but cowering beneath mine," Hannibal says, seemingly entertained by his own observations.

Will's eyes snap back open at the sound of his voice. He struggles to listen through the thick haze of terror and panic.

"Or is it the proximity that frightens you?" Hannibal asks, pressing his fingers firmly against Will's throat. "Too close for comfort?"

The second time he shifts above him Will flinches [don't move, don't move, don't move.] The pain never comes but the air becomes warm, damp. Will can hear labored breathing, a chest struggling to expand fully, [but he can't tell whose.] He thinks about pushing it [Hannibal] away but is wary of recoil. Hannibal senses this and Will chokes on a gasp as strong, muscled calves tighten around his hips.

Hannibal's voice breaks the rhythm of shallow breathing. "Am I not the same friend with whom you've sought company and companionship?"

"I, I, I-" the sentence starts once more before he can finish it. "I don't know."

Will's eyes swivel sideways, seeking solace behind the thick, dark rim of his glasses.

Hannibal chuckles and it reverberates through his chest in a low rumble, too close to a growl. "I don't bite."

Will's face twists. "I-" he forces himself to breath before continuing. "I find that hard to believe," he says, managing not to stutter though the rest of the sentence.

"Careful now," Hannibal says, breathing quietly against Will's neck. "Wouldn't want to create any self fulfilling prophecies."

Will contemplates the absurdity of the warning. "What are you?" he asks at last, because he can't think of any other way to phrase it. It still tastes bitterly cliche on his tongue.

"We have been called many names over the course of time, most notably lycan and-"

"You're a werewolf?" Enthusiasm and unease, all at once.

Hannibal narrows his eyes in another warning and the breath stills in Will's throat. "It is rude to interrupt someone who is speaking, Will."

Will clamps his mouth shut tight, lips stretched into a thin white line. It's the first time he's heard the wolf [Hannibal] speak his name out loud, and he's embarrassed by the way it makes his blood thrum anxiously in his veins. He buries his voice, desperate to quiet his brain by silencing himself. Shame churns inside his chest and mixes with fear. In milliseconds Will is already teetering on the edge, eyelashes on the brink of breaking under the pressure from unshed tears.

Removing his glasses is the first thing [so overwhelming] to spur him into opposition. "Don't," he says so quietly that afterwards even Will is unsure if he's really spoken the words out loud at all.

The Wolf hesitates for an imperceptible moment before continuing the action. When Hannibal stares down into his eyes, Will can feel himself breaking, coming apart at the seams. Despite the shift in features, their bond is the same, and Will can feel those eyes opening him up [now more than ever.]

Claws dance precariously close to the juncture of Will's neck, teasing the thin skin that could easily be punctured. Hannibal leans down and scents him a second time, pressing his face into Will's shoulder, close enough that he can probably hear the increase of speed, the way his pulse flutters like a caged hummingbird.

Hannibal opens his mouth and Will can feel the sharpness of his teeth immediately, edges poised like razors where Will breaths. They share the same air for one moment before Hannibal sweeps in and steals the rest from his lungs. His back arches and his mouth falls open before he can anticipate the error in his actions. Will's chest spasms once, and a noise he tries to swallow catches in his throat. Breathing should be easier than this, but with Hannibal pressing his tongue against Will's lips, his body disagrees.

"Don't," Will tries again, confidence lost between puffs of air.

The words contort his lips against the predator's tongue. The dark look in Hannibal's eyes crawls underneath Will's skin and wrenches a shudder from him that starts in his throat and doesn't stop till his toes are curled inside his mud spattered boots. Will is ravaged when his jaw falls slack. A jolt of arousal spurs Will's heart into action, heightening hysteria halfway into a panic attack.

Will turns his head away and convulses, something he wishes was revolusion roiling in his stomach. "I can't, I can't, can't-" his voice skirts and falters like a needle tripping over a scratched record.

The monster pulls away, almost [human] considerate as it waits patiently for Will to finish speaking. The pressure only makes it worse. Will sucks in a deep breath and struggles to exhale.

"Breathe," he gasps at last. "Can't breathe, can't-"

"Of course you can," Hannibal assures him. It does nothing to quell the frenzy of fear and overstimulation.

Will is going to die, he's certain. If not from what Will must believe is a werewolf, than from his own mental defect. Each time his chest rises he is certain it will be the last.

"You are experiencing a mild panic attack," Hannibal says clinically, which makes very little sense because the crippling sense of hopelessness Will is currently experiencing is anything but moderate.

An elevated body temperature brings delirium with it, and Will can't help but scrabble his clammy palms against Hannibal's chest in a pathetic attempt at dislodging the heavy body from above him. Soaked in his own sweat, Will twists against his grip, tears pricking in his eyes as anxiety traps him in its unrelenting chokehold.

"You are by the stream," a disembodied voice tells him. There is a sense of familiarity in the speaker that Will takes comfort in. "The fragrance of pine and fresh air fills your nostrils. The brook crackles as water breaks against the rocks."

For a moment, Will can feel it. Disconnect breeds indifference as Hannibal's words and Will's thoughts converge into one.

The trees shroud and protect him from everything outside of his small, secret, oasis. Dragonflies are out today, bright specks of color flittering over crushed leaves. Will is undeterred by the overcast weather. Each time the sunlight breaks through the wall of clouds Will feels a warm sense of surprise and delight. The breeze is doubly refreshing as it drags a cool mist of water across his face.

"How does the water feel?" Someone asks.

Will can feel the smile stretch across his face. "Nice," he says, eyelids at half-mast.

"How else?" The voice prods.

Yawning, Will's head lolls to the side. Hannibal is there beside him, unnaturally colored eyes staring back into his own, black fur shining beneath a sunbeam that's managed to peek through the fog. Will turns back to the water, watching in fascination as he drags his feet in through the stream. His reflection distorts and in the moment before the water settles he's certain there is a man, not a wolf, sitting beside him.

The thought doesn't disturb him here. "Refreshing. I feel...relaxed."

The wolf stands in front of him without really moving. Will wraps his arms around his neck, pressing his face into Hannibal's soft, dark fur. He feels momentarily lost but unperturbed by the way the darkness consumes him.

Reality returns in the little details: the way the fabric on the armchair frays, the texture of the unfinished wood paneling behind Hannibal's head, or even the way he can find faces and pictures in the patterns on the ceiling. Will catalogues these observations without meaning too, allowing the room to slip into his peripheral vision until he can see the bigger picture in its entirety.

For the first time he sees Hannibal without shrinking away. Will watches the bodies below with a detached sense of skepticism. Beside Hannibal he looks babyfaced and insecure, like he hasn't quite adapted to the length of his own limbs. His plaid shirt is wrinkled and untucked, though no worse for wear than it was when he'd left the house earlier today.

Belatedly, [and Will isn't sure how] he realizes that Hannibal is naked. His body is smooth as marble and almost just as hard, as if each dip and contour of muscle has been chiseled from stone. There's a sense of symmetry in his face, an [inhuman] intensity in his eyes that Will finds difficult to ignore. Hannibal retracts his hand from Will's mouth where he'd been forcibly steadying his breathing. The last puzzle piece that falls into place is the sound of Hannibal's voice penetrating the evening sunset. His breathing is steady for less than a minute.

"Good boy."

The phrase disgusts and excites Will simultaneously. The sound of a zipper being undone yanks Will back into his body. Hannibal places a hand gently on his bare chest, nail just short of grazing his nipple.

Hannibal glances back at him and Will's breath sticks again. "Maintain your breathing," he commands without breaking eye contact.

Will obeys immediately, feeling dazed. Hannibal's satisfied smile reminds him that this man is the same prideful animal he bandaged, the same creature that became his eyes when he was blinded by the storm. The feeling of danger is ebbing away with the sand by the stream. The loss and confusion remains ever present.

His shirt slips away as Hannibal undoes the buttons with an unhurried deftness. "What are you-"

Finishing the question becomes pointless. Will is hardly stupid, and while he may be inexperienced, he isn't uneducated. A million words slosh around in his brain until there's nothing left but a slurry of raw feelings and questions he isn't sure how to ask.

"Why?" Will feels horribly inarticulate.

"Why?" Hannibal echoes. He shakes his head. "Will, I thought you understood the implications of companionship."

Will's skin sears when their stomachs brush. He'd felt feverish before, but the depletion of delirium has left Will damp and chilled. The contrast in body temperature is a converging of equatorial winds. Will braces himself for the destruction that is sure to follow.

Insistent hands explore Will's body while an undeterred gaze dissects his mind. Hunger hangs in what little space remains between them. From whom the feeling emanates, Will isn't sure. He can't even recall the last time he's been touched, only that it's never been so intimately. Each press of skin is another unfilling appetizer. Less than halfway to the main course and the post-famine starvation is already settling in.

Will squeaks when Hannibal teases his nipples between his thumb and forefinger. More than hopeless, Will feels thoroughly emasculated. Despite what his peers might say, he isn't actually gay. Not really.

"This isn't-" His meek protest is cut short.

Hannibal wraps his slender fingers around Will's wrist, yanks the other into place until they're outstretched above him, squeezed into just one of his fists. Will squirms, bucks his hips briefly in an effort to throw the other man off balance. Hannibal casually drags his fingertips down the pale skin of Will's arms, brushing the pad of his thumb across the marks as he discovers them, shushing years of self inflicted pain with small, simple touches.

"No, no-" Will gasps. Overcome by the sentiment, he hides his face the best he can against his own shoulder.

A moment of quiet passes where all Will can hear is his own heart hammering in his ears. Hannibal surprises him by speaking.

"I'm quite fond of you," he says, brushing his lips across Will's bared throat. The tone rings true for how a child might describe the affection he feels for a beloved pet.

Will squeezes his eyes shut.

"I don't want-" He cuts himself short, indecisive. Will isn't even certain of what Hannibal is offering, only certain that he doesn't want it. "I'm not-"

"Friendship can sometimes involve a breach of an individuals separateness."

A single word infects him with self-doubt. Friendship has always been something Will watched with baited breath; nothing he had, never privy to. He imagines what it might be like, and realizes he's already experienced it. Quiet walks through the forest, finding solidarity in silence, mutual understanding and comfort by the stream.

Will balks. "Are we-we're friends?"

His laughter feels like applause. "Or remarkably unconventional enemies."

Laughter brings with it some semblance of ease, deceptive as it may be. The fingers at his chest prod and pinch until Will is pliant, arousal jolting through his body like an unstable electric current. Hannibal presses his lips to the juncture of Will's neck, inhaling deeply as he allows the scent of vulnerability and desperation to pervade his senses.

"If we do not change our direction, we are likely to end up where we are headed," he says, stalling for less than a second before sinking in his teeth.

He feels stretched taut, wound up and tense. Hannibal sucks at the sore spot, hard enough that Will can feel the bruise form, the blood vessels breaking with the last of his resolve. He tries to cover his face, forgetting the way his hands are bound until the movement jerks to a halt. The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitches and Will is nearly strangled by the shame of his own helplessness.

"Am I supposed to-" he tries to speak between gasps. "Stop you?"

Amusement rumbling in his voice. "You could try."

A question dances on Will's tongue. "Does it even-I mean-would it matter?"

Hannibal slides down the length of his body in a single predatory movement, fingers hooked in the belt loops of Will's cuffed jeans as he peers up at him. He tugs on them just enough to reveal the bone of his hip.

"Perhaps."

Will becomes hyper aware of the oversized canines when the smirk stretches into a morbidly kind smile, tiny weapons built to tear flesh and break bones. He can't help but consider the strength that must be hidden in the man's jaw. Hannibal pulls at the denim inch by inch, reveling in the way Will's muscles spasm with apprehension.

"I've never, never-"

"Never?"

Will feels a shock of shame [embarrassed.]

He reaches out for something to ground him, ends up with his fingers curled around Hannibal's broad shoulders instead. Humiliated, Will fantasizes about nothing more than squirming out of Hannibal's grasp and melting into unexistence. Face flushed, he tries to keep his breathing steady. It's proving as difficult as he imagined.

"Better untaught than ill taught."

The words are accompanied by a wave of relief that quickly spirals into self-loathing. Will can hardly believe the way he's cracked under the pressure, though he feels less like a snapped tree branch and more like candle wax melting beneath the heat from a flickering flame. Pants bunched at his kneecaps, Will almost wishes that Hannibal were rougher, harsher, more violent. Anything to rationalize his own paralysis.

A warm palm at the front of Will's underwear disrupts his circular thinking. Practiced fingers squeeze him through the thin fabric, stealing his breath. Will experiences the briefest moment of clarity but has naught a clue what to do with it. Hannibal accepts silence in lieu of acquiescence Will's, remaining lucidity quickly quelled by gentle contact.

Already hard and throbbing beneath Hannibal's touch, fingers at the waistband of his underwear shouldn't surprise him, but they do. The air against his skin is equally as startling, dragging the first true noise from Will's lips. A shudder wracks his body as his hips twitch eagerly into Hannibal's loose fisted grip. Hannibal stops this [rude] behavior immediately, thumbs pressing down at the twin indents at Will's hips. Hands free at last, Will drapes a forearm across his eyes.

"You're unusually demanding for someone with a preference for playing victim."

Will brings his other arm to join the first, leaving all but his mouth exposed. "I'm not," he isn't sure what else can be said.

"Do you cover your eyes so that I can't see you? Or so you don't have to watch what you allow me to do to you?"

Will swallows, trembling from the feeling of damp breath against his uncovered cock. Words fail him, not for the first time. His hips become jittery with the strain of remaining immobile. Moments pass in silence, and patience becomes impossible. Will peeks out from between his arms just in time to watch the head of his cock disappear into Hannibal's mouth.

The image alone is enough to force out a choked moan. The feeling sends Will reeling. His balls tighten when Hannibal hollows his cheeks. Frustration bubbles in the back of Will's throat, makes itself known in a series of quiet whimpers. Hannibal pulls away with a wet pop.

"A witness might wonder which of us is the animal."

Will shakes his head as his nerve endings light up like fireworks. "A witness might wonder if compliance precedes consent."

Claws in his skin, Will winces. A wet noise snags his attention, but he turns away at the first glimpse of red. He steels himself for sensation, floundering when Hannibal drags his lips across the entire length of his cock before pulling away. The air is doubly cool against his heated skin, and when his mouth falls open he nearly chokes as Hannibal presses something inside.

For a split second, blind panic convinces him it's something larger, that Hannibal will kill him via suffocation-

"Suck."

Will listens instantly, finding that it's merely Hannibal's index finger that's been shoved into his mouth. Hannibal presses a second digit in beside the first, firm against his tongue. He pushes until Will's lips reach the last knuckle. Will tries not to think about what's coming next. For a moment, he allows fear to take him.

"I'm here with you, Will," Hannibal reminds him.

He shouldn't find his voice a comfort, but he does. An opportunity for Will to catch his breath presents itself as Hannibal retracts his fingers and moves to carefully unlace and remove Will's boots. His heart resumes it's frenetic pace when Hannibal tugs his jeans and underwear the rest of the way down. It's too much. Will has rarely thought about what this might be like, but when he did it never included werewolves or shapeshifters or even men at all, [except maybe-]

"Nonono," the words spill from his mouth as soon as Hannibal spreads his legs, fingers gripping his knees.

Hannibal nods, smoothing his hands across skin until his fingernails are pressing at the tender flesh of Will's inner thighs.

"Wider," Hannibal commands.

Will's toes tremble an inch above the cushions, open as much as the width of the couch will allow. Hannibal stares at him like he's a treasure to behold, rubbing his thumbs in small soothing circles before sliding down to spread his cheeks. The feeling is immediately invasive, like Hannibal is prying him apart, inspecting him from the inside out.

"Not, not, not-"

Plea ignored, Hannibal positions himself between his legs. Will tenses reflexively, trying to brace his body for the oncoming pain. The saliva slick finger that presses inside him is uncomfortable, but not even distressing enough to flag his thickening erection. The sense of betrayal is immediate, his body seemingly unaffected-or even worse, spurred on-by his own mental upheaval.

"Not inside," Will squeaks, two moments too late.

Will bites on his fist to stifle the pitiful noises threatening to break out. He tries to inch away but Hannibal's hand follows until his forehead bumps the arm rest. Trapped, Will squirms when Hannibal presses a second finger alongside the first, spreading him thoroughly. They wiggle inside him as Hannibal swallows him whole, leaving Will breathless and violated all at once.

Toes curling against the mattress, Will wrings his palms across his tear streaked face. The feeling of soft heat wrapped around him forces his body into futile jerks forward, cock eager to fuck the mouth around him. He feels distinctly at loss of what to do, hands hovering in the air, too afraid to rest them against Hannibal's head. What little experience Will has to compare is small and almost entirely irrelevant. [Frantically twisting his hand underneath his pants before falling asleep at night, jerking himself in the shower before school in the morning, fantasies about what Alana might let him do to her if she only liked him, or knew he existed at all.]

Through the haze of sensation, Will can hear someone talking.

"What pretty young classmate are you imaging I am?"

"No one," Will croaks, trembling around Hannibal's fingers.

It's impossible to imagine Alana doing something this depraved [fucking into him and spreading him apart like this.] Hannibal smiles, playing Will with soft strokes before crooking his fingers inside him. Will's muscles tense and release in a spasm. He shakes his head no even as he pushes back against the friction.

"A boy or a girl?" Hannibal presses, slowing his movement.

The phrasing makes Will feel incredibly childish, that much smaller. His cock is already leaking, precum beading at the tip and dribbling down the shaft while Hannibal ignores it in favor of intrigue. Will tries to close his legs but Hannibal's grip is unrelenting. Hannibal twists his wrist and spears his fingers into Will, leaving him to scrabble at the fabric of the couch, arching his back in a silent scream as Hannibal sucks him to the root.

The warm feeling in Will's belly spirals into a whirlpool as Hannibal sucks and fingers him with ease; entertained as a child winding up the back of a decorative jewelry box. Will makes lovely music for him too, moaning when Hannibal licks at the slit, toes curling when Hannibal sucks his cheeks in around the head. Hannibal releases his grip and allows Will to buck forward for the first time, cock sliding sloppily between his slicked lips.

"Don't stop," Will manages to beg when Hannibal tightens his fingers at the base of his cock.

Hannibal's jaw remains slack just long enough for Will to find his own rhythm. Following Will's lead, Hannibal stretches forward until his nose presses against the baby soft patch of hair there. Hannibal swallows around him and Will screams against his own fist. Will is gasping, trying to make himself comprehensible as he pushes at Hannibal's shoulders. Hannibal's gaze hardens and Will's hands drift uselessly to curl in his hair instead.

The fingers inside him jab with precision, pushing against his prostate with each thrust. Hannibal loosens his grip at the base of Will's cock, stroking him off in time with his tongue. There's a small spike of pleasure before orgasm erupts, spurting from his cock and sliding down Hannibal's throat. Heels digging into the cushions, Will surrenders, allows the heat to consume him, to climb and mount with each shudder that overtakes him. Oversensitivity wracks him for several jolting seconds, cum leaking from his softening cock when Hannibal pulls away.

The cum splashed across his stomach begins to dry. Hannibal wipes his fingers on a stray piece of clothing and Will feels empty inside.

"Lean forward," Hannibal instructs, repositioning himself over Will's chest.

Will obeys without realizing it, shifting his weight onto his forearms for a better angle.

"Open up nice for me Will."

Muscles tense, Will tries not to flinch away as Hannibal moves forward. The cock bobbing a few inches from his face is hard to miss, well cut and wet, nearly as elegant as the rest of Hannibal. Easily above average. Will's chest tightens, fear haunting him strongly enough that he can barely resist the urge to turn away at the last second. He doesn't, and the feeling of Hannibal's cock against his mouth is almost as warm and undemanding as a kiss.

"Keep your tongue flat," Hannibal commands as he presses forward.

Bracing himself for revulsion, Will is unpleasantly surprised by how much he enjoys the feeling of Hannibal's cock being dragged across his tongue. He doesn't want to do this, Will reminds himself. And there isn't any other way, he tells himself, much less convincingly. Resisting the urge to suck, he keeps his jaw slack as Hannibal plays with his mouth, fucking into it in short, shallow movements before pressing it to his cheek.

"Stay with me Will," Hannibal reminds him. "You're doing very well."

The next move forward Will resolves to make better use of his tongue. Relying on recent experience, Will laps at the head, probing at the slit. He proves himself a quick study as he demonstrates a technique that closely mirrors Hannibal's own. Barely audible, Hannibal's breath hitches when Will gags in an attempt to take him further into his throat. The resulting sound when Will wrenches away is sloppy and wet.

Apology teeters on the tip of Will's tongue. "I'm-" he steels himself, trying to avoid eye contact. "I don't know what I'm doing," Will confesses.

Hannibal shakes his head. "I'm sure you will be a natural," he assures him with the smallest of smirks. "Or is that what you are afraid of?"

Every movement bleeds power when Hannibal stares down at Will like this, muscled thighs on either side of his shoulders, toned stomach flexing as he hunches over to feed Will his cock. Hannibal startles Will with a gentle caress that begins with his face and ends with one fist threading through his hair. Leveling his eyes, Hannibal catches his attention before speaking.

"Wrap your hand around the base."

Will nods, chest rising as he breathes in.

The touches are tentative only temporarily. A thumb pad stroking against his cheek provides Will with all the confidence he needs. His fingers tighten briefly around Hannibal's flesh, spasmodically at first, then with more purpose. Hannibal remains still and patient, and even more surprisingly to Will, erect. He cranes his neck forward to lick another stripe across the length of Hannibal's cock. A small smile sneaks its way onto Will's face when Hannibal gasps.

Will works his mouth around Hannibal's cock, sampling every inch of skin. He keeps his eyes trained on the task before him as he works, watching with a deranged sort of fascination as precum oozes from the tip of Hannibals cock and mixes with his own saliva. This time the smooth skin pulsates against his palm when he squeezes. The fingers in his hair tighten and Will flinches, nearly expecting a blow.

Patience running thin, Hannibal inhales deeply. "Hands at your sides," he says shortly.

Will drops his hands, tangles them in the sheets, tries to brace himself. He keeps his mind a blank slate, his vision purposely unfocused. Palms tight against either said of his temple, Hannibal pulls Will's face forward onto his cock. It pushes into his mouth until his cheek expands, stuffed full. Will's eyelashes flutter as he tries to slow his breathing. When Hannibal repositions his cock and thrusts forward the first time, Will gags violently.

"Good boy," Hannibal tells him anyway, pulling back so Will can suck in a mouthful of air before he stuffs it full again.

The praise plummets directly to Will's groin and pools there. His cock twitches with renewed interest as shame heats his skin. A barrage of words filter through Will's mind but none come into focus. Sensation amplifies when Will closes his eyes, white pinpricks of heat sizzling where their skin meets. Without visuals Will unintentionally imagines his own: dew drops pressing to his cheeks in the overgrown grass, clouds drifting by with the lazy flow of the breeze. For a moment too long, Will is still.

"Look at me, Will."

The images sink into darkness like a camera lens snapping shut. Reality is twice as vivid, unbearable in its indisputable clarity. The nails pressing at his scalp are a welcome anchor. Hannibal tightens his fist, the veins in his forearm lighting up like technicolor pathways under a black light. Will watches as muscles flex and the colors bleed into one another.

Hannibal begins a slow pace while Will struggles to keep up. The feeling rattles him each time: the invasion, the pressure, the way his throat is desperate to close up, the way Hannibal's cock keeps it open until Hannibal decides otherwise. Will catalogs the pattern and adjusts, hollowing his cheeks when expected, trying not to choke as Hannibal presses further back into his throat with each forward thrust. Breathing becomes its own trick, something to focus on other than the drool slipping past his lips.

The next time Hannibal cants his hips Will tries to reel back, head held firmly in place by Hannibal's unflinching grip. Will sputters, frozen as Hannibal pushes further into his throat. Movement sets in and accelerates alarmingly fast. Hannibal yanks Will's head forward with each thrust, fucking him without reservation. Helpless, panic overrides arousal as Will's eyes flicker around the room for any chance of escape. Suffocation is imminent.

Hannibal shakes his head. "You can do it."

Unable to swallow or pull away, Will stares up into Hannibal's eyes, desperately hoping to appeal to his better nature; to catch a glimpse of the companion that once saved his life. Instead of empathy or understanding, Hannibal's pace increases, becomes unconcentrated and uncoordinated as his eyes drift shut. Will teeters on the brink of unconsciousness, can barely gather enough energy to shake his head frantically in dissent when the first spurt of cum hits his tongue.

Hannibal's orgasm is drawn out torture, thick girth spreading Will's lips wide. Each thrust is more well lubricated than the last, semen seeping from the corners of his stretched taut mouth. Suffocation is a slow kill, strangling the air from Will's lungs until he can see stars rise behind his eyelids, blotchy sunbursts that blind him from the universe's apathy. The bitter taste and overflow smothers his senses, airways clogged. This is the way Will Graham is going to die, and it's only fitting that it's just as he's lived [pathetic, afraid and alone.]

Oxygen is a swift impact when Hannibal pulls back. Will's chest burns with each lungful of air he manages to pull in. The tips of his fingers are cold and clammy; semen and drool begin cooling on his tear soaked cheeks.

"Inhale," a deep voice commands him.

Will struggles to expand his chest.

"Through your nose, William," Hannibal clarifies.

Will shakes his head even as his nostrils flare. As his heartbeat regulates, breathing slowly becomes something Will can do with minimal effort. Moments slip by as Will struggles to conquer a basic bodily function. He finds comfort in the idea that there is still time enough for Hannibal to kill him. Eventually, the world is still.

* * *

Afternoon smells like slow-cooked meat and sunshine. Light filters through the blinds, leaving the knit blanket striped in rays of yellow. The clothes on Will's body are no more his own than the couch he's awakened on. Bandages twine around his wrists like vines on a chain link fence. Will moves cautiously, peering into the kitchen over the armrest of the couch. The open layout is doing nothing to assuage his anxiety.

Hannibal is standing in the kitchen not too far off, pouring over a saucepan large enough to be called a cauldron. He sips broth less like a cook and more like a chemist. Will shifts forward for a better view and Hannibal's eyes swerve in his direction. Startled, Will loses his grip and gains a mouthful of knit fabric. Will is still picking strands of fur from his mouth when Hannibal inclines his head.

"Good morning," he says politely, before returning his attention to the stove top.

Will feels his nerves shoot from zero to sixty as he scrambles off the couch. Breathless, Will glowers from where he leans on the kitchen counter.

"You almost killed me."

Hannibal doesn't miss a beat. "I told you you could do it."

Will shakes his head, unsure of what he's disagreeing with [because he could do it and so he did. Didn't he?] The quiet is almost neutralizing, but Will never claimed to have a spectacular sense of self-preservation. The sound of his own voice surprises him, the way it scratches and scrapes like it's being torn from his vocal cords one syllable at a time.

"You forced me,"

Hannibal answers swiftly. "I didn't force you to enjoy it."

Indignant, Will stumbles. "You took my-" he doesn't want to finish the sentence, doesn't want to reconcile with what he all but gave up without a fight.

Hannibal escapes scrutiny and slips through Will's fingers like smoke before a fire.

"Took?" Hannibal appears to savor the word on his tongue as he stirs the saucepan. "Fair exchange is no robbery."

Will's lips stretch into a thin line. "Yeah but why-why-" he barely resists the urge to pull at his hair.

"Are you asking me why I did what I did, or why you liked it?"

Will swallows. "The first one."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," Will says quickly, and then, less confident, with his voice lowered: "I've never-never felt like…" Will pauses, wonders if lying might be better, ends up telling the truth anyway. "Well like that, exactly."

Images force their way into Will's head: slated skin, red eyes, body built like a brick wall. Even worse is the noise: whispers Will wishes he hadn't heard, sounds uttered that he can't retract. It had never been like that for Will before, not even when his own fantasies consumed him.

Hannibal clicks his tongue. "It is a foolish sheep that makes the wolf its confessor."

"I'm no more a sheep than you are a wolf."

"And yet," Hannibal pauses to catch Will's gaze, "Here we are."

Hannibal's fingers nearly brush Will's as he places the bowl in front of him. Will stares at the space separating them, losing himself in the last few inches that keep their skin from touching.

"It still doesn't explain-" Will stops himself and wipes his hands on his pants.

Hannibal only offers a single nod of acknowledgement. "Many people underestimate how erotic it is to be understood."

"There was nothing-" Will balks. "Nothing erotic about it."

Will stares into the soup at his own reflection, distorted in the dark broth and obscured by meat, it barely resembles the Will Graham he knows at all.

"But you were understood."


End file.
